and the rest is rust and stardust
by symphonies of you
Summary: "he tells her that time is a metaphor for infinity and evanescence and everything in between – maybe it prevails in a parallel world, but it's obvious that it doesn't exist here. " - for amy, rosescorpius. one-shot.


**a brief note to all of you reading this:** i finished this at two in the morning, so i apologise if there is a lack of coherence. there's a lot of crazy metaphors in this, so if you're not good with metaphors, it might be a tad bit confusing.

**dedication: **to amy (You're Amyzing), who deserves the best in life - you're my fave and you're perfect, never forget that. happy one-day late birthday!

**disclaimer: **don't own anything you recognise. title creds to vladimir nabokov and bolded-and-capitalised-words creds to pink.

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**MAIN PROMPT**: tessellate

**ADDITIONAL PROMPTS**: runaway, sink, bleed; "i confess, i do not believe in time" - vladimir nabokov

**PAIRING**: rosescorpius

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**WORDS**: 1,376

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**-IT'S-**

she doesn't really know, but she thinks that she's fascinated by wayward souls. they are houses built of immovable stone with feeble rays of sunshine penetrating the shards of stained glass filling the jagged cracks in between. and what she finds especially interesting is that they masquerade about with emotionless masks as if they're perfect and not in need of others.

but there is still something flickering in their eyes, ruining their self-imposed mirage, whether it be anger or self-pity or frustration. there's a simple magnetism pulsating in the colourless light of their weary eyes, eyes that draw her in like the effortless pull of gravity. she wonders if it is possible for their emotions to bleed out through their eyes onto their skin, tarnishing the stone and shattering the glass and vanquishing the walls into mounds of ash.

they are composed of ageless marble, deceivingly faultless by every curve and bend and edge.

(just like scorpius malfoy, a straggler prince carved of ice.)

**-BEEN-**

there's something about stories with happy endings. she reckons that she's enthralled by the concept of attaining a happy ending because it dictates a concluding finality with nothing more to gain, and she rather likes the sound of that.

the pinnacle of perfection.

(oh, doesn't it sound wonderful?)

perhaps, in a parallel universe, wayward souls get their happy endings.

**-WRITTEN-**

she looks for him in the crowded corridors and moving staircases, and she finds that he tends to keep his head down and stick to the dappled shadows and the less-travelled passageways of hogwarts.

thinking about the war stories her mum and da told her a few years back, she wonders if people are still prejudiced against him.

she doesn't think she's ever hated him on behalf of his family's wrongdoings.

(not even when she heard the stories the first time around.)

**-IN-**

her first encounter with him is in her fifth year at five o'clock in the morning when the dark blue of the awakening sky isn't sure if it wants to sink into the usual cheerful blue with cloud wisps and crimson streaks tessellating the horizon.

she's out running, but she doesn't follow her usual path. guided by some compelling force of nature, she strays off and gravitates towards the pebble-strewn shores of the black lake.

as she gets closer, she notices that there appears to be a person sitting down among the pebbles with his back to the sturdy, weathered trunk of a tree and absentmindedly tossing pebbles into the gentle ripples.

a person who happens to be her constant case of study with a familiar shock of white-blonde hair.

"hello," she says a bit nervously.

he acknowledges her tentative greeting with a wary nod. after a few moments fraught with the innate awkwardness of first conversations, she situates herself next to him in a cross-legged manner with a furtive glance towards him.

(nope, no hexagonal sign flashing TALK TO HIM in neon lights.)

they sit together and watch the sun rise and galvanize the emergence of cloud wisps and crimson streaks against the usual cheerful blue creeping in.

just the two of them alone in a world of silent conversations and ambiguity.

what they don't know is that this is the inevitable start of an inexplicable friendship.

**-THE-**

"why don't you ever talk to anyone?"

"the art of socializing isn't my forte."

"well, that can't be the _only _reason."

"and there is a complete lack of intellectuals at hogwarts."

"oh, i beg to differ!"

he smirks at the indignation infusing her flustered countenance, and she rolls her eyes.

**-SCARS-**

she's not book-smart like her mother, but she has an intellect ringing of curiosity that separates her from her peers.

so, she tends to converse with people who can hold their own in an intellectual conversation.

(is that why she has barely a handful of friends?)

thus, people with a uniquely-functioning brain like hers are wont to crave philosophical tête-à-têtes.

**-ON-**

it's five o'clock in the morning, and they're both out by the black lake – it has become a crucial part of their simple routine.

he holds a lit cigarette in one hand and a pebble in the other. she looks out across the still waters, the still waters running together to form a timeless sea of fragile glass reflecting the colours of the wind.

"i love this part of the morning. the world's still asleep and time is non-existent," she murmurs.

he smirks. "ah, i confess, i do not believe in time."

that nonchalant statement sends her head spinning with an amalgam of incomprehensible emotions and feelings, the profundity of it shocking her into speechlessness.

he continues, "time is a rubbish excuse for not living life the way it desires to be lived."

he tells her that time is a metaphor for infinity and evanescence and everything in between – maybe it prevails in a parallel world, but it's obvious that it doesn't exist here. there's a something, an unmistakable something rhythmically ticking deep within the buried core of this apathetic universe, of his and her trembling essences, but it's not time – it's _life_.

he says that he's sick of people confusing the gist of life for something as false as time.

she's intrigued by the complex mechanisms of his mind, the involuntary process of separating the abstract from the concrete like distinguishing the faded black from the stark white of old photographs.

_impossibly _intrigued.

**-OUR-**

wayward souls are nearly untouchable, nearly invincible – "nearly" meaning that they're subject to the throes of emotions and woes.

she discovers that he's not a house of stone and glass but a star uncomfortably situated amongst other stardust and comets and planets against the backdrop of an endless stretch of darkness and nothingness. he's a lonely star isolated from other lonely stars in a galactic pandemonium, longing for the laughable idea of companionship amidst the countless galaxies swirling through outer space.

he looks like he has it all together and he's alright the way he is, but when she looks more closely she can see the creases and lines between the pieces of his imperfections glued together.

(so she makes it her mission to smooth the creases and lines over, to paint optimistic colours over everything, to fix the conspicuousness of his imperfections .)

**-HEARTS-**

he has a horrid habit of smoking.

she reckons that it sort of fits the image she has of wayward souls – darkly tainted and poisoned by mishaps and desires.

she finds herself genuinely worried for him, which comes as a surprise to her because they're hardly friends except they are; they have the strangest friendship known to mankind and it makes little sense, but they're starting to understand each other on unfathomable levels that leave her vibrating with contentment.

**-WE'RE-**

"put it out, scorpius."

"and why should i do as you ask?"

"isn't the part about 'ruining your health' warning enough?"

"we all die anyways. what's the difference in dying young?"

**-NOT-**

he smirks, and she rolls her eyes.

that's the way they roll – an exchange of smirks and eye-rolls.

(their story is a satirical parody of teenaged mannerisms and banters.)

**-BROKEN-**

"if you didn't smoke, you could probably live forever. or be forever young."

"and why would i wish that upon myself?"

"because it's a notion of a normal teenager?"

"since when were we ever _normal teenagers_?"

"oh, right."

**-JUST-**

she helps him break free from his finite position in the distant night sky and suddenly, they're two misfit toys, two runaways, two outcasts hurtling towards a parallel world characterised by abstractness – a parallel universe where time prevails and immortality exists.

it's a journey in which they climb concrete peaks and travel through multiple dimensions of existence; they discover that scorpius' theory of time being non-existent is delightfully true.

(and somewhere along the way, in a fortuitous series of moments, they fall in love and get their happy ending.)

**-BENT-**

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a/n: well. the format of this was intentional, so don't give me concrit on how the beginnings of my sentences need to be captialised. i wanted to try something new, so i'm sorry if bothered you. also, the word WAYWARD was used as a synonym for LOST in this piece.

how was this? -crossing my fingers and hoping it was actually okay-

please don't favourite without reviewing! =)

-nic.


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